Archive for October, 2005


October 31, 2005

Open For Business

October 31, 2005

The West Coast chapter of the Justified Agents Of Mummu is, as of today, open for business.

Hail Eris.

That Man In Black

October 28, 2005

No, not Johnny Cash. This was some creep who was standing outside my building last night as I went out to pick up some roach motels. I feel bad for all the roaches living under my sink and think they have the right to watch softcore porn movies on lumpy mattresses too, so I like to pick up a few motels a week to keep them happy.

Anyway, I digress.

I walked out of my building and a small man wearing a black suit was walking around in circles. As I walked by him he stopped and touched my elbow. “Merry Christmas.” he said, then added: “What is your time?”

“My time?” I asked. “Well, it’s isn’t Christmas, I can tell you that. It isn’t even Halloween yet.”

“I’m looking for meat.” he said, which I have to admit caught me off guard.

“Oh.” I said. “Well, good luck with that.”

“Are Platypusses poisonous?” he asked as I walked away. Remembering my encounter with the large Platypussy the night before I stopped, and turned back to him. He was standing very still and had a large grin plastered across his face, like he knew something I didn’t. And what he knew was apparently very humourous.

“I’m not an expert on Platypusses.” I said, walking closer to him. “Are you?”

He kept smiling. “I’m looking for meat.” he repeated.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“You can call me Mr. Eye.”

“Is that your name, or just what I can call you?”

“What is your time?”

“It’s dark,” I said. “That’s all you need to know.”

“That’s all I need to know.” he repeated, still grinning like an idiot.

At this point I was beginning to become a tad unnerved by this gentleman. “Look, who are you?” I asked.

He said: “I’m one of you.” Then added, “Aren’t I?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.” I said, with all honesty. “Where are you from?”

He looked around, and then said, “I live between the cracks.”

“The cracks?”

“I’m looking for meat. For the others. They show up later. Or before. I don’t know. I don’t know the time. What is your time? They show up, but they need things. Sometimes we are light. Merry Christmas. At night it is easier. Please turn off cell phones. Am I falling apart? What do you talk about at night? Am I speaking to the correct person? What time is it? What is your time? Sometimes we float. It’s hard to know which way to go. They are coming. They are here. They have gone. Have they? What is good to eat? How long? How long until now? What is your time?”

I started to worry that he was autistic or drunk. “Do you need help?”

“No. I need to know the time.”

I made a time up. “It’s eight thirty.”

“You lie.” he said. “It is five o’clock.” and with that, he turned and walked down the street. I watched him cross to the other side, and crouch down to tie his shoe. It seemed to take a long time. After a couple minutes I shifted my position to see around the car he had crouched behind. He was gone.

Suddenly the roach motels didn’t seem so important. I went back inside and locked all my doors and windows.

I wonder if he found any meat?


October 28, 2005

The Baron’s UFO Encounter

October 26, 2005

Last night while tap-dancing on my balcony a bright purple light appeared in the sky. I watched it for a few seconds, wondering if the pollution in the air had altered the atmosphere so much that it could cause a star to appear purple, then continued tap-dancing.

As I entered into my seven hundredth step-ball-change the purple light grew into a huge ball of violet fire, and just as I marveled at it I found myself inside a dark room. The air was moist, and had the slight odour of cinnamon.

I hardly had a chance to wonder where I was before a chair near me turned around to reveal a seven foot tall Platypussy smoking a cigarette. “I suppose,” it said. “that you are wondering why I brought you here.”

I thought for a moment. “No, not really. I assume that you have some sort of cosmic warning about nuclear death and all that drab crap. Am I right?”

The Platypussy leveled a severe glare at me. “No.” it said. “That is not right. I do, in fact, have a warning for you, but it has nothing to do with nuclear death, as you so casually put it. What do I care if all you monkeys blow each other up? Do you realize how much agony your race has put the universe through . . . Celine Dion, Joe Piscopo . . . Donovon. I could go on and on. In fact, I hope you all do charbroil yourselves.”

I sighed. “The warning?”

“Yes.” the Platypussy said. “Yes. That warning. Well. I don’t know if you are aware but you rented a DVD about three weeks ago.”

“Did I?” I asked.

“Yes. The Village, by M. Night Schyamalamadingdong.”

“Oh god, right. I had blocked that out from my mind. Thanks for bringing all that back.” I shivered, recounting the two hours of my life which had been stolen from me. “So what’s the warning? Not to see anymore of his movies?”

“No.” the Platypussy said. “Take back the DVD. You don’t want it to effect your credit rating.”

I looked at it, smoking a cigarette and blowing smoke rings with it’s duck like bill. “That’s . . . it?”

“Yep.” it said. “Go home.”

And with a blink I was back on my balcony and the purple light was gone. My legs ached. Wearily, I wandered back inside and sat down on the couch. Looking up at the clock I realized that over twenty minutes had gone by . . . more time stolen from my life.

I still haven’t taken that DVD back. Fuck em.

‘Twas A Good Life

October 26, 2005

R And R

October 25, 2005


October 24, 2005

While thinking today about the concept of creating your own reality I was reminded of a guy named Stew I used to know. He didn’t really like being called “Stew”, he preferred “Stu”, which is almost the same, but completely different. But, come on . . . if your name CAN be reduced to stew, why not reduce?

Anyway, that has very little to do with my story. Pretty much nothing, really. I could delete it, but, who cares.

Anyway, Stew (or Stu, but more accurately Stew) is one of the few people I’ve met who I can say with some confidence that he created pretty much his entire reality. Not in the sense that the sky was green if he wanted it to be (although for all I know that may have been true) but Stew had this way of being able to weave a fabric of reality into any bizarre story he told you about his life, and it wasn’t until later that you would sit back and think “What a crock of shit”.

He was very mysterious. He had apparently been in a very bad car accident a few years before any of us became acquainted with him, and suffered a fair amount of brain damage . . . he would often tell me that the Stew I knew was not the Stew who originally existed. He would tell me that I “wouldn’t have liked that Stew”, which was an odd thing to state, I always thought. He worked as a waiter, and took great pride in creating a different personality for himself when he was waiting tables. He seemed, in fact, to have a slightly different personality for each person he knew.

He once told Big Mama and I that for an entire year in BC he had lied to a girl about his name, grade in University, and his major. He had done it, he told us, to see if he could fool people into believing he was younger than he actually was. Think about that. He lied to a girl, who thought she had a boyfriend named Steve, when in reality he was a completely different person. He told Big Mama and I at the end of the story that “somewhere” this girl was walking around telling stories about her psycho ex-boyfriend who had fabricated his entire life. We assured him that the girl was correct in her theory.

Several times strange events took place and he would later recount the stories in different ways. Like the time he got in a fight. Or, maybe got in a fight I should say. I never found out the truth. One time he told me that he had been mugged in a park by people who jumped from the bushes, on another occasion he told me he had been smoking weed with some people he didn’t know in the park and later they mugged him, on still another occasion he told me some gay guys had tried to rape him in the park. Any or none of these stories may be true. Maybe a little bit of each, I don’t know . . .

After a certain point I stopped trying to figure out what really occurred to him. I started thinking of him like Schrodinger’s Cat . . . if I didn’t think about what actually occurred to him, then in a certain sense all my theories were simultaneously true, which is how I prefer to remember Stew.

Dreaming Of Pea Soup

October 24, 2005

Bob Dylan

October 21, 2005